


Abridged Casuistry

by boonies



Category: DBSK | Tohoshinki | TVfXQ | TVXQ
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-02-01
Updated: 2015-02-27
Packaged: 2018-03-10 00:33:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,603
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3270110
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/boonies/pseuds/boonies
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After a year of tirelessly tracking the elusive Bambi Bandit, Detective Yunho becomes its next target—romantically.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

The lights dim.

 

"My next target," fourteen of the screens echo at once, a slow-pinging pulse oscillating to match the voice modulator, "will be," the signal scrambles, white noise dispersing into a taunting, " _Jung Yunho_."

 

The monitors fade to black.

 

A single pink dot distends into a crude heart, frequency swelling over high-pitched escalating chatter. The screens shatter into a rebuilding mosaic: a candid shot of Yunho, face pixelated, badge legible, two animated arrows stabbing through his chest, captioned: _mine_.

 

The lights flicker back on.

 

"...so," Section Chief starts cautiously, mouth twitching, "...did the Bambi Bandit just say the next thing he's gonna steal will be..." the entire precinct, crammed into the debriefing room, turns to stare at Yunho, " _your_ _heart_."

 

Three detectives hastily avert their eyes.

 

A suspicious amount of coughing fills the room.

 

Mortified, Yunho palms the desk and rises.

 

"Chief," he argues passionately, "all of my data suggests this is definitely some kind of copycat—" he squares his shoulders, absolutely certain, because—modesty aside—Yunho's _the_ expert on this particular profile, "—this just isn't his usual M.O.—"

 

"Well, actually—" one of the analysts pipes up innocently, shuffling through a thick printout, "the electronic signatures match."

 

"...maybe he's trying to throw us off track," Yunho insists defensively but slowly sinks back into his seat, face ablaze.

 

"No, no—this is good," Section Chief points out with a contemplative nod, clicking his pen. "It means he'll try and approach you," he tips back in his swivel chair and scratches at his stubble, adding a conspiratorial, "at which point we'll finally get him in custody."

 

Yunho exhales, defeated.

 

"In the meantime," Section Chief says and slaps Yunho's back, "go meet your new partner."

 

*

 

 

"Him," Section Chief says.

 

"What," Yunho blinks, staring at a tall kid clumsily inspecting Section Chief's desk, all bright eyes and baby curls and gangly limbs.

 

"Shim Changmin," Section Chief says, less patiently, and shoves at Yunho's back. "Your new partner."

 

"...you mean, my new partner's..." Yunho starts with apprehension as Changmin awkwardly tugs his jacket aside to adjust a loose holster, "... _son_?"

 

Startled, Changmin looks up.

 

"No, um, I'm actually twenty-ei—eeh," he drops his gun and scrambles to catch it. It clatters to the floor, safety cocking. "Oh."

 

Hurriedly, Section Chief disappears, clearing his throat with an uncomfortable side-eye.

 

Deeply concerned, Yunho squats next to Changmin, gathering the spilled mess and searching Changmin's shiny face. "...are you here for training."

 

"Ah, no, I," Changmin explains nervously, "they sent me to help," he fumbles, badge peeling off his belt and plonking onto Yunho's shoe, "...protect... you..."

 

Yunho stares for a long moment.

 

"...I'll drive."

 

 

*

 

 

"So how much did they tell you," Yunho asks at the third red right.

 

Changmin fusses over a pair of brand-new handcuffs, dark turtleneck bunching over his chin.

 

"About—" he starts with a muffled yelp, accidentally snapping one cuff around his wrist, and panics trying to hide it, "—about the case?"

 

Yunho steps on the gas, miserable. "...yes, about the case."

 

"Well," Changmin begins semi-professionally, still struggling with the handcuff dangling from his wrist, "for unknown reasons," he rattles off with diligent care, "you're being targeted by a renowned international criminal—"

 

"A narcissistic thief," Yunho corrects pointedly, careening down a narrow back street.

 

"Eh," Changmin shrugs, clutching at the dashboard as the car tilts, knuckles white, "he doesn't sound like a narcissist." He ducks his head, bangs bouncing. "From. From what I've. From what I've read."

 

Yunho glances over, one hand on the steering wheel.

 

"I've been profiling him for a year," he offers kindly because—from experience—high-strung rookies like these need to be handled with kid gloves or Yunho's day will, once again, end with resignation letters and light vomiting. "Someone with his abilities should be out there _helping_ people, not harming them."

 

The handcuff slips off.

 

"Well," Changmin returns guardedly, not meeting his eyes, "why do you think he's doing what he's... been accused of doing. Allegedly doing."

 

"I don't know," Yunho admits, honest, then tries to lighten the mood with a cavalier, "but as Bambi, I'm guessing he's probably out there avenging his father's death or something."

 

"Mother's death," Changmin corrects smoothly, tone combative. "Bambi's mother died in the movie."

 

"...right," Yunho concedes apologetically and barrels into a private underground parking garage, nicking a ramp.

 

"Besides," Changmin lectures shakily, turning around to watch the ticket dispenser clang out an alarm, "he's not really _harming_ people."

 

Yunho spies an empty spot between two convertibles and goes for it. "Stealing is wrong."

 

"Robin Hood stole to give to the poor," Changmin counters, eyes widening as one of the convertibles loses a mirror, tone turning soft, curious, "was that wrong."

 

Yunho pauses.

 

"Does Bambi give to the poor," he asks finally, setting the brake.

 

"That's irrelevant," Changmin snaps then jerks with dismay, caught on his seat belt, eyes brimming with unshed rookie tears. "Ah, Yunho-ssi, I think I broke it..."

 

"Hyung is fine," Yunho offers and easily reaches over to unbuckle him.

 

Changmin doesn't dodge, only gives a tiny impish grin, mouth curled as though his tail is wagging, and offers a pleased, smug,

 

" _Hyung_."

 

 

*

 

 

"Hyung," Changmin asks in the elevator, "you're not curious why he picked you."

 

Yunho blinks innocently, playing with the buttons. "What."

 

"You're not..." Changmin tries again, obviously forced smile masking his exasperation, "I mean. Hyung. Why single you out when he's always only, uh. Taken, no. Just. You aren't curious," he ventures, sounding like a mess, "why he wants to, um, steal you."

 

Yunho laughs, instinctively draping a brotherly arm around Changmin's shoulder. "He doesn't."

 

"Well," Changmin hedges, "...there were hearts and... _mine_..."

 

"Look," Yunho explains patiently, patting Changmin's shoulder as the elevator pings, "our records of his activities go back seven years," he tugs him into a dark corridor, temple pressed to Changmin's in a friendly sunbae gesture, "but the only time he almost got caught was last year—when they assigned _me_ to the case."

 

Briefly, Changmin's lips seem to curl wickedly but it must be the shadows.

 

"So you think he's not serious," he asks with a quick furtive glance, squished beneath Yunho's arm, fingers curling around Yunho's wrist, prying him off.

 

"I think I pissed him off," Yunho allows and tries not to ruffle Changmin's hair as they round the corner.

 

"And do you like pissing him off," Changmin asks quietly, "hyung."

 

"Yeah," Yunho says with a shameless grin and lifts his hand to knock.

 

 

 

*

 

  
"...another new partner, Yunho-ssi..." the witness greets, face scrunched up.

 

Sheepish, Yunho bows and takes off his shoes.

 

"Ah," he sugarcoats a little because his last one hung in there for a record two months, "it's just... bad luck."

 

The witness gives him a sympathetic once-over, then addresses Changmin with a more optimistic, "Is Yunho-ssi training you?"

 

"No, I'm here to protect him," Changmin boasts with a bright nervous smile and knocks over a vase.

 

 

*

 

 

"Like last time," the witness says over tea, restlessly wringing out a napkin, hands folded across her lap, "he only took the newest artifact from our private collection."

 

Yunho scribbles the information down onto his notepad and examines the glass cupboards. "What kind of artifact."

 

"...I'm not at liberty to say yet," the witness sidesteps, looking uncomfortable. "But needless to say, it was, by our definition, priceless."

 

 

*

 

 

Yunho hums, suspicious. "It's unusual for him to return to the scene of the crime."

 

Absentmindedly, Changmin nods.

 

"And she's hiding something," Yunho says, leaning his chin against his knuckles and steering the car around a detour.

 

"Probably," Changmin agrees, scrolling down his phone.

 

"Well," Yunho yawns and glances at his watch, "we're officially in overtime, so where should I drop you off."

 

Changmin looks up from his phone, baffled. "Hyung. Didn't you read the memo."

 

Yunho's not a fan of memos.

 

"Uh..." Changmin explains, somehow excessively flustered and fidgety, "you're under... twenty-four-hour protection..."

 

Yunho tries not to swerve into oncoming traffic. "What."

 

Changmin hides a smile.

 

"They sent me," he says at last, no longer resembling a neurotic puppy, "to _stay_ with you."


	2. Chapter 2

"Chief, you can't just—I mean, cohabitation is a little—no, I understand, but—" Yunho pleads, trying to unlock his door, phone awkwardly pressed between his cheek and shoulder.

 

Next to him, Changmin raises the most innocent of eyebrows, hands clasped behind his back, rocking on the balls of his feet with anticipation.

 

"No, I understand that, too, but—" Yunho grunts and tamps down his frustration, "—yes, Chief, we'll—yes, we'll— _yes_ ," the code reader flashes a warning, numbers obnoxiously transposed, "we'll report in the morning, yeah, that's fine—" the system dings with a metallic _access denied_ , "FUCK."

 

Obstinately, the latch clicks for the fourth time, going into automatic lockdown.

 

Done, Yunho violently kicks the door in.

 

Pocketing his phone, jaw clenched, he turns to look at Changmin wavering in the hallway, eyeing the damage. "...come in."

 

Startled, Changmin falters but then shuffles in with puppy-like _wat dis wat dat_ interest, taking everything in.

 

His face falls.

 

"I don't have a guest room—" Yunho apologizes, trying to focus, gut corkscrewing with displeasure.

 

"...hyung... your shoes..."

 

Oh, Yunho thinks and repentantly kicks them off, one shoe flying at a mountain of unopened mail decomposing by the slightly-splintered door.

 

Bills scatter across the hallway like shurikens.

 

Wide-eyed, Changmin bites his lip, mouth thinning into an angry trembling line.

 

Robotically, he removes his shoes and knocks over an empty umbrella stand with almost deliberate precision. "Sorry, I have to—clean it up. The mess. The mess that I made. I'm going to clean up the mess I made."

 

He scrubs down the entire hallway instead.

 

 

*

 

 

"Like I said," Yunho repeats, awed at his brand new hallway, blinded by its unfamiliar shiny tiles and meticulously organized newspapers, "I don't have a guest room, so is the sofa okay?"

 

"No," Changmin growls dangerously, sleeves rolled up, face sweaty, bucket of water sloshing by his feet, stubbornly staring at a loose coat hook, but then he jerks, twists around, and tugs his turtleneck up with a bumbling, "I mean. Yes. I. Hyung. I love sofas."

 

Yunho gives him a pitying look.

 

Inhaling deeply, Changmin finally properly enters the living room, steps wary and calculated as though he's a battle-scarred puppy crossing into cat-infested enemy territory, which is kind of... super... adorable.

 

So with a friendly smile, Yunho gestures at the sofa.

 

Changmin stares for a long moment, then drags a frustrated hand down his face, shaking.

 

Yunho frowns, uncomprehending.

 

It's a cozy little sofa, housing several dozen case files, a few misplaced recyclables, and yesterday's dinner.

 

So with an even friendlier grin, Yunho drapes Taepoong's old puppy blanket over it in warmhearted welcome. "Let me know if you need anything else."

 

Vacantly, Changmin scans the room, knuckles white, cheeks sunken in.

 

"No, nothing. I don't... need. I'm fine. It's fine. Everything's fine."

 

 

*

 

 

"What I don't get," Yunho mumbles around a mouthful of lukewarm takeout, "is why he would—"

 

"Hyung," Changmin complains, chopsticks frozen in disgust, "...your food..."

 

Sniffling, Yunho wipes at his mouth, knuckles greasy. "—why he'd return to a place he already hit."

 

Changmin stares, facial tic apparent.

 

Daintily, he stabs his chopsticks into their shared carton of rice, eyes darting back to Yunho's face.

 

Head in the game, Yunho licks the sauce off the corner of his mouth, pondering absentmindedly, "I really don't wanna ask for a warrant, but if the Seo representatives won't cooperate—" he turns his face to give Changmin a cursory glance and nonchalantly picks a grain of rice off Changmin's baby-soft cheek, "we'll have to play dirty."

 

Changmin's ears are weirdly flushed at the tips.

 

"Okay," he grits out slowly, scrubbing at the spot Yunho touched.

 

 

*

 

 

Yunho's fairly observant.

 

Not to the point of paranoia, of course, but there's something strikingly unusual. Sure, it's probably just the typical unease of adjusting to a new presence in his apartment, but the feeling of being watched is... intense.

 

So he casually sweeps his room for bugs, the image of a pixelated heart burnt into his retinas.

 

...nah.

 

Nah, he's being fucking ridiculous.

 

Anxious, he flops onto his unmade bed, belly-down, faceplanting into his pillow, fully clothed. A pang of concern flares briefly because the puppy is probably uncomfortable and afraid out there in the living room, cast out into the unfamiliar recesses of a stranger's apartment.

 

Yunho's 900% sure his poor rookie's going to be gone by morning.

 

Normally, the complaints usually start trickling in after the first week but none of Yunho's previous partners were this uptight and fragile, and Yunho's been trying real hard to ease up on his usual overbearing taskmaster shtick, but—

 

Yunho scrambles to sit up.

 

With purpose, he tumbles off the bed and attacks his ancient computer.

 

It takes half a century for the machine to boot up but then Yunho's logging into the precinct's digital microfilm archive, idle thought suddenly taking root because Changmin's right—Bambi lost his _mother_ —so Yunho promptly searches through the articles, filters out dates beyond 2008, narrows it down by headlines involving deceased women and suspicious circumstances—

 

"Hyung."

  
Yunho starts, knee slamming into the underside of his narrow desk. " _Fuck_."

 

That door was definitely closed and Yunho definitely didn't hear it open, but Changmin's standing in the doorway anyway, watching him quietly, wrapped in a blanket.

 

Yunho relaxes.

 

"Hyung," Changmin warns softly, "you shouldn't be sitting by the window."

 

"What," Yunho laughs.

 

"He said," Changmin reminds, looking like a very tall, very crabby caterpillar, blanket tight around his face, "he said all those things—so you shouldn't sit by windows or doors by yourself, hyung, you probably shouldn't even shower alone."

 

Deeply amused, Yunho ignores his troubled little caterpillar-puppy in favor of scrolling down his dust-specked monitor, headlines speeding by.

 

His grin fades.

 

He clicks to expand a page, scanning the article.

 

"Come here," he tells Changmin seriously.

 

With an obedient sniff, Changmin shuffles closer, towering behind Yunho.

 

"What's that look like to you," Yunho asks, gesturing at the screen with his chin.

 

Changmin leans down, placing a large hand on Yunho's shoulder.

 

"Hyung," he asks noncommittally, "do you... do you know what year it is."

 

"2015," Yunho replies easily.

 

"...okay," Changmin sighs and bats Yunho's hand away from the mouse, "this is how we search case files in the year 2015."

 

He hits an odd combination of shortcuts, opening command prompts, pulling executable files, and loading a browser Yunho's not totally sure he ever installed on this computer.

 

Awed, he blinks at the monitor, the sheer amount of informative tabs overwhelming.

 

"Yeah," Changmin agrees, eyes dark, gaze fixed on the headlines. "This case looks related. Uh. Could—could be related. Possibly—maybe, I mean."

 

Yunho purses his lips in thought and glances off to the side.

 

His posterboard's tacked to the wall, filled with grainy photographs of Bambi—useless angles and unidentifiable features but after a year of studying it, the bastard's outline is thoroughly familiar: the tense width of his shoulders, the straight gait of his skinny legs—

 

"...you," Changmin starts, noticing the photographs, "have pictures."

 

Yunho frowns, turning to observe Changmin's face.

 

"You have pictures of him," Changmin repeats, mouth twitching, eyes bright with a weird narcissistic spark, "in your bedroom. Hyung. That's a lot of—that's so many," a giddy laugh escapes, one eye narrowing in mismatched glee, " _hyung_."

 

 

*

 

 

"No," Changmin growls belligerently, slapping Yunho's hand away.

 

Yunho glances at his wristwatch. "We have to be at the station in twenty minutes."

 

"No," Changmin says and turns around with a grumpy huff, burrowing deeper into the sofa, twisting the blanket over his head.

 

"...get up," Yunho says.

 

"No."

 

"Changmin."

 

"No."

 

"Get," Yunho enunciates, annoyed, "up—"

 

One moment, Yunho's shaking the blanket burrito by its uncooperative shoulder.

 

The next, he's under his new partner, pinned to the carpet by a pair of surprisingly strong arms, blanketed by a warm heavy mass of muscles.

 

"Don't wanna get up," Changmin mumbles into the hollow of Yunho's throat and rolls his hips, hipbone grinding against Yunho's belt buckle, "so I'm not gonna."

 

Yunho pauses, cold sweat beading at the base of his spine.

 

There's a long quiet lull and then Changmin is scrambling off him, clumsy, apologetic, distraught, "No, hyung—I sleep... I sleepwalk and talk and, um, push people to the floor sometimes, I guess, so, uh."

 

Yunho expects a nervous, contrite _sorry hyung_.

 

It doesn't come.

 

 

*

 

"Are you hungry," Changmin asks as Yunho speeds by the fifth drive-thru.

 

"No."

 

Changmin tucks his chin into his turtleneck, crossing one long leg in the narrow space. "We're eating breakfast, hyung."

 

Yunho finds himself turning into a congested lane with a compliant, "Okay."

 

 

*

 

 

"Look," Chief apologizes, swiveling around in his squeaky chair, "someone from Internal sent him, so, I don't know—just think of it as your punishment for making four of your partners quit and bear with it."

 

Yunho peeks through the blinds, watching Changmin trip over a cable wire and bulldoze a heavy-set secretary, helping her topple over an entire row of file cabinets and a prized potted plant.

 

Embarrassed, Yunho methodically removes his fingers from the blinds, repressing. "You don't seriously believe I'm in any real danger, do y—"

 

"Yunho," Chief coaxes, chair creaking to a stop, "I'll get you that search warrant if you leave me alone."

 

 

*

 

 

"What," Changmin blinks adorably, looking up from his heap of paperwork.

 

Yunho nudges the coffee cup closer. "For you."

 

Changmin averts his eyes.

 

"I don't drink coffee," he grunts but takes a curt sip.

 

Yunho leans against Changmin's desk, resting his own coffee cup on one knee. "I got us the warrant."

 

Changmin's eyes widen in surprise.

 

"And I petitioned Criminal Affairs to let us reopen that cold case."

 

Changmin's fingers curl around a sheet of paper.

 

Features softening, Yunho brushes lint off Changmin's jacket.

 

Scowling, Changmin warns, "No skinship."

 

 

*

 

 

"What's wrong with skinship," Yunho asks, missing a red light, half a lane short of a serious traffic violation.

 

"I don't like—I don't—just no skinship, hyung," Changmin defends, clutching the dashboard, the shape of his palms practically imprinted into the polymer, "skinship is not. I mean. Just don't..."

 

Yeah, that fussy flustered reaction is only making Yunho want to ruffle the kid's hair and pinch his shiny cheeks, auntie-style, but he settles for helping him unbuckle.

 

 

*

 

 

"Yes," Yunho yawns into his phone, kneeing the car door open, Changmin in tow, "most of their collection was undocumented, repatriated stuff—yeah, we sent it for analysis—sure, we can definitely—"

 

Changmin slips past him, claiming the driver's seat.

 

"—report tomorrow..." Yunho trails off, disconnecting the call. "You're not driving my car."

 

Changmin gives him a wide, innocent—somehow patronizing—smile. "Well, I'm not dying, so."

 

 

*

 

 

The car slips between two freighters.

 

Yunho's heart is mostly in his throat, pounding frantically.

 

With a sleepy eye-watering yawn, Changmin angles the steering wheel and manages to simultaneously graze both trucks' chassis.

 

"How long will it take to reopen the case," he asks, gaze focused on the road ahead.

 

"There's—" Yunho winces as the speedometer maxes out, engine groaning, "a block on several claims related to the case, so— _Changmin_."

 

Repentantly, Changmin eases off the gas, shoulders tensing. "What kind of block."

 

Yunho's brows knit. "External."

 

"That's... suspicious," Changmin points out.

 

"It's suspicious," Yunho nods.

 

 

*

 

 

Exhausted, Yunho clicks send, powers off his monitor, glances four desks over, and says, "Changmin. Let's go home."

 

Changmin freezes.

 

Then slowly recoils. "Let's... go to the store first."

 

 

*

 

 

"I don't need plates."

 

"Hyung," Changmin lectures, pushing the cart, "you need plates."

 

"I have plates."

 

"No, I—accidentally, completely accidentally, broke your ugly chipped plates. I broke them all."

 

 

*

 

"You can have the bed tonight."

 

Changmin pauses by the bathroom, towel in hand. "I'm okay with the sofa..."

 

"You're not okay with the sofa."

 

"I'm really not okay with the sofa, hyung."

 

*

 

 

Yunho wakes up with a crick in his neck and a cramp in roughly fifty-four of his muscles.

 

He wonders if setting fire to the sofa would jeopardize his security deposit, then lumbers into his bedroom to growl a disgruntled _get the fuck up_ at Changmin, who's sprawled across Yunho's bed like a pampered princess, hugging the pillow, naked, flushed, happy, curls wet around his temples.

 

Yunho lets him sleep in.

 

*

 

"—if we slip in a special exhibit announcement to the media," Yunho briefs the room, aiming a laser pointer at the wall, courtesy of a presentation Changmin kindly put together, "he might bite."

 

"If we use the remainder of the confiscated collection," one of the analysts nods, tapping her fingers to the table, "it could work."

 

"It probably won't," Changmin murmurs under his breath, maybe.

 

 

*

 

 

"Because you're a slob, hyung," Changmin bristles, bounding by Yunho's side.

 

"I'm a _man_ ," Yunho corrects, picking fluff out of Changmin's hair as they pause before the elevators. "Besides. That's not why my last... mumble-mumble partners quit."

 

Changmin grins.

 

"How many partners," he probes.

 

Yunho tries not to grin.

 

"Let's just say after you transfer," he concedes, "I'll need more than one hand to count."

 

Changmin's lips thin. "Who says I'm transferring."

 

"Well," Yunho reasons, "once we catch Bambi—"

 

"What if you don't."

 

Startled, Yunho misses the elevator door opening, then composes himself. "Nah, I'll get him."

 

"Hyung," Changmin says quietly, ushering Yunho in, "I think he's serious. He'll try to take you."

 

"Well, good thing I have you to protect me," Yunho comments offhandedly, pressing the wrong button.

 

Changmin stares.

 

"Yeah," he agrees, sounding almost condescending, and pushes the correct button, "I guess you can't cure stupid."

 

"Changmin-ah," Yunho grins, strangely affectionate, "let's go home."

 

 

*

 

 

Yunho learns fast.

 

"...hyung..." Changmin greets haltingly, voice rough with sleep, bedhair wildly out of control, snug in Yunho's blanket, hovering by the doorway, "...is that breakfast..."

 

Yunho stops fanning the grill and bites back a shit-eating triumphant grin.

 

 

*

 

"I like rules," Yunho says over breakfast.

 

Changmin ignores him.

 

"And since you're basically living here rent-free," Yunho continues, sipping coffee and keeping a close watch on Changmin's face, "I'm gonna start charging you a fee for some stuff."

 

Changmin pales.

 

"Breakfast," Yunho announces, "is two high-fives."

 

Changmin stares.

 

Slowly, his mouth curls.

 

 

*

 

 

"I brought you lunch," Yunho points out.

 

With a put-upon expression, Changmin looks up from his desk, hesitates, then awkwardly low-fives Yunho.

 

Satisfied, Yunho enters the chief's office.

 

"...are you... conditioning the rookie," Chief wonders aloud and shuts the blinds, impressed.

 

 

*

 

 

They're staked out in front of a nondescript private museum when Changmin leans on the steering wheel and says, "So you love rules." He turns slightly to meet Yunho's eyes, curious. "What do you hate."

 

Yunho thinks.

 

"Lies."

 

Changmin looks away.

 

 

*

 

 

"We put the announcement out through several of our channels," an analyst says, distributing assignment summaries.

 

Yunho pages through his, knee rhythmically knocking against Changmin's out of habit. "Why am I on the roof."

 

"Because that's probably going to be his entry point," Changmin offers, struggling with his straw.

 

Unthinking, Yunho takes the straw, pierces Changmin's juice box with practiced ease, then hands it back to him. "Alright."

 

 

*

 

 

Showering at work is generally uncomfortable at best.

 

Today, it's creepy as fuck.

 

Yunho _knows_ he's alone.

 

In theory.

 

In reality, however, the room is empty and his is the only stall running and even if he _weren't_ alone, it wouldn't exactly be a big deal because they're all men here, nothing to hide, nothing to legitimately be concerned about—

 

A bratty _hyung you shouldn't even shower alone_ sneaks in like an endless echo.

 

Yunho pauses, soapy hand reluctantly slipping past his lower abs.

 

It's not like... he can... shower with Changmin at work, so he pulls up a random girl group from his spankbank—to distract himself, to de-stress, to shed this nervous unreasonable feeling, to—

 

"I said not to."

 

Yunho starts, slipping on the tile, frantically covering his junk.

 

"I said," Changmin says calmly and starts the showerhead next to Yunho's, "not to do this alone."

 

Yunho exhales into the spray.

 

*

 

 

"No," Changmin huffs, folding laundry, "I did your dishes, can't you count that as my fee, why does my rent have to come out in skinship, hyung, that's not—"

 

Helpless, Yunho ruffles his hair.

 

 

*

 

 

"We'll do a last run-through an hour ahead," Chief tells the room, "but where are we at right now."

 

"Shim's gonna be here," Yunho nods, marking the transparent board with a sharpie he hopes isn't permanent, "adjacent to me."

 

"Team Leader..." one of the analysts suggests gingerly, "...wouldn't it make more sense to put the newbie on ground patrol."

 

"No," Yunho frowns, strangely irritated. "Shim's perfectly capable of—"

 

Restless, Changmin twirls his pen.

 

It flies off, smacks against Chief's forehead, and drops to the floor with an eerily loud thud.

 

"...Shim, you're on ground patrol."

 

 

*

 

 

"Hyung," Changmin frets, crowding Yunho in the hallway, getting in his way, "I'm supposed to protect you, I can't protect you," he walks himself backwards into a parked cleaning cart, banging his ass on a sharp metal corner, "if I'm not near you—"

 

Yunho stops walking.

 

"There's going to be twenty of us," he tells him gently because while this level of dedication to the job is admirable, Changmin is more of a liability than a support system, so, "you can't possibly think he's going to, what. Steal me?"

 

Changmin straightens, serious.

 

"I don't know," he shrugs, unreadable. "He seems like the type who gets what he wants."

 

 

*

 

 

"Let's—" Yunho starts with a yawn, computer powering down.

 

Changmin hands him the car keys. "Let's go home, hyung."

 

 

*

 

 

"After we catch him," Yunho promises in the morning, absentmindedly wiping ketchup off Changmin's upper lip, one hand loosely handling the steering wheel, "let's get really fucking shitfaced."

 

Changmin tucks his chin into his black turtleneck and offers a mild, muffled, "Let's."

 

 

*

 

 

On cue, Yunho positions himself on the roof, observing the moonlit skyline.

 

The mock exhibit one building over is in full-swing, artifacts on prominent display, hosts circulating openly.

 

It's too obvious, Yunho thinks.

 

Bambi's not an idiot. There's no way that asshole didn't instantly see through this less than elaborate ruse. There's no way he'll hit the same place thrice. But perhaps, Yunho hopes, the little shit will either be tempted by the collection or intrigued by the challenge.

 

Discreetly, Yunho checks the safety on his gun one last time, squints at the bright lights of the exhibit, signals the detective stationed on the adjacent roof, and tries very hard not to GPS Changmin's location.

 

Amused, he shakes his head with a stupid lopsided grin, a fond _should've packed him a snack_ passing through his head, and rounds the monstrously large aircon unit, briefly losing visual contact with team proper.

 

A white playing card flutters to the ground.

 

A stylized joker-type deer is printed at its center.

 

Pulse spiking, Yunho grabs for his comlink.

 

A quick uppercut to his solar plexus sends him reeling.

 

Expertly, a warm hard mass bodychecks him into the unit's metal siding, pinning him like a note.

 

Winded, blindsided, Yunho struggles, desperately turning his head through the pain to catch a glimpse, something, anything identifying, but there's only tinted glasses, a dark baseball cap, a dark hoodie, a dark backpack, a dark upturned collar—

 

An elbow slams between his shoulder blades in warning.

 

With a sharp clink, a padded cuff snaps around his left wrist, anchoring him to a vent, and an insistent knee pushes between his legs, a sturdy solid chest pressing into his back, a warm unrelenting body latching onto his, locking him in place.

 

There's a soft puff of air by his cheek and then wide chapped lips are pressing along his jawline with a smug, satisfied,

 

" _Detective_."


End file.
